


Disarm

by autisticalistair



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Dragon Age: Inquisition - Trespasser DLC, F/M, Fluff and Angst
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-02
Updated: 2018-10-10
Packaged: 2019-07-24 02:05:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,376
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16171391
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/autisticalistair/pseuds/autisticalistair
Summary: Magdalena Lavellan never wanted any of this. All she ever wanted to was to live a safe life, become the Keeper, continue her family line. All she wanted was a world where she didn't have to fight for her existence every step of the way. But fate is cruel, and the gods are gone, and Maggie is thrust into a war she never wanted to fight, the mark on her hand branding her forever, and the people around her willing to follow her into the abyss itself to stop  the ultimate evil from destroying the world around them.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Disarm you with a smile  
> And leave you like they left me here  
> To wither in denial  
> The bitterness of one who's left alone  
> \- Disarm, The Smashing Pumpkins

The Free Marches were always strangely quiet, between the cities. Forests and ocean, mountains beyond counting, rivers that carved a place for themselves in the landscape and didn’t give a damn about the consequences.

It was nothing like Nevarra or Orlais, where Maggie and her clan often had to avoid cities entirely just so they wouldn’t be struck down simply for existing. Not that the Free Marches were any better, but there were more small places they could stop at to resupply and trade. They had been traveling through the Free Marches for so long that Maggie couldn’t really imagine what was waiting for them on the other side of the Waking Sea.

She looked up from her studying, a thick heavy tome in her lap written in the Common. A book stolen from Tevinter, if she understood correctly. It was horrendously dry reading. Her neck was starting to hurt from having her head bowed. Maggie saw her brother among the trees, talking to a couple of the younger children and showing them his bow, how the string worked, how the arrows would fly off when he shot them. He caught her eye and smiled, waving her over.

“I should really be studying, you know,” Maggie whispered when she approached him. True to his nature, Piotr just shrugged off her concern and handed her his bow.

“Maggie here is one of the best archers I’ve ever seen, even though she’s a mage. We learned together,” he said. The kids surrounding them watched with rapt attention as Maggie checked the bowstring. It needed to be oiled again, but otherwise, Piotr kept his weapons in good condition. She drew back the empty string and aimed at nothing, testing the pull. “Vir Tanadal. Can anyone tell me what that is?”

 _Ever the wannabe hahren,_ Maggie thought. But Piotr was good at it.

There was a show of eager hands, smiles on un-tattooed faces. Maggie knew them all, had done since they were born, and a flicker of pride ignited in her when she saw just how much they had grown.

“It’s the Way of Three Trees!” a little girl said, her eyes bright and mismatched. One green, one brown. Maggie helped deliver her, and she was a difficult birth, coming out face up and feet first, but she had always been a kind and curious soul.

“Good job, Harea. Anyone know what the three aspects of the Vir Tanadal are?” Piotr asked.

Maggie listened to Piotr go over the Vir Assan, Vir Bor-assan, and Vir Adahlen with a bunch of ten-year-olds and busied herself with taking her brothers arrows and stepping away for a second. The Free Marches woodlands were sparse here, along the base of the Vinmark Mountains, but they were plentiful enough. Maggie slung the quiver over her shoulder and moved soundlessly until her brothers voice faded away, and she was alone among the trees. The Keeper wouldn’t miss her. She would just see Maggie’s books piled neatly by the aravel and know she had taken a walk, or gone on a quick hunt. Maggie hadn’t quite decided which one it was yet.

But it was a nice walk. It felt good to stretch her legs after spending all day cooped up and hunched over, and the presence of the trees around her was a comfort. Perhaps it was some ancient part of her that missed the forests of Arlathan. Whatever it was, it let her traverse the woods with ease, even here, when they hadn’t been camped longer than two weeks. They would have to leave and cross the mountains soon enough. Kirkwall was still a cesspit of… well, everything. But they needed to get to Fereldan as fast as they could.

The Divine and her compatriots wouldn’t wait for a handful of Dalish spies slipping into their long-awaited peace talks.

Maggie shook those thoughts away and turned at the last marker than bordered their camp. Fen’Harel, in all of his worn stone glory. Out of habit, Maggie kissed her fingertips and pressed them to his head as she passed. His eyes seemed to follow her as she passed, but it wasn’t an oppressive watch. The Dread Wolf kept them safe from harm, even if he had never been fond of the Dalish. Maggie was never scared of him. Something the Keeper said was foolish, but not entirely unheard of. When Maggie looked over her shoulder, she saw the weathered wolf statue staring ahead in his perpetual guardianship.

She smiled.

It was a long time before Maggie caught a hint of game anywhere near her. A harts footsteps were half buried under foliage, but they were recent enough that she could feed her clan tonight, Creators permitting. Not that they were wanting for food, but it was always nice to have a big meal on a cold night, and the darkness would descend soon, bringing the chill of the night with it. A hearty meal of venison and bread would keep them full and lift their spirits, making things easier when they finally packed up and left for Fereldan.

Maggie hunted. She found the hart and followed it silently, waiting for the perfect opportunity. A shot to the head would prevent her having to hunt the thing down even more. She drew an arrow, ready for the shot when it came. _Fly straight and do not waver. Bend but never break. Together we are stronger than one_. If Maggie hadn’t ended up a mage, she would have made a fine hunter. She learned the same things Piotr had, and when her magic showed, she never really put down the bow, finding it a repieve from the pull of the Fade that constantly surrounded her now.

She repeated the Vir Tanadal as she followed the harts tracks through the woods. Maggie had a pretty good sense for where she was in the woods, but any further and she wouldn’t be able to return before dark, and templars were rogue and spread far and wide these days. That broke her concentration and she paused, glancing around her. They stayed far enough from Kirkwall that they were never really too bothered by the locals, but since some asshole had blown up the Chantry, there was always a risk of running into some rogue, vengeful templars who would take one look at her pointed ears and vallaslin and decide she was their next target.

It happened sometimes. Not often, but sometimes. An apprentice or a hunter would get too close to a city and they would never find their bodies. It was worse when they did. Mutilated and defiled more often than not. Sometimes they found their fallen comrades before they died and had to ease their pain with a knife to the heart or the base of the skull. The quicker and easier, the better.

Maggie clenched her jaw. This was no time to think about that, but her thoughts often escaped her in times like this. She tightened her grip on the bow and the leather and wood creaked under the pressure. She had lost the hart. She swore and lowered the bow, slipping the arrow back into its quiver.

She was about to turn and go home when she heard a horrific, animal screech of pain. Maggie froze where she stood. She knew the sound of an animal in pain, and even if she hadn’t been the one to loose the arrow, she couldn’t bear the sound. The hart, no doubt, was in agony. Maybe bandits, maybe templars. Maggie didn’t hang back, regardless, and instead she just sprinted at full speed towards the sounds of the dying hart.

She found it quickly, but too late to put it out of its misery. The wolf with its muzzle buried into the harts stomach had taken care of it, and when Maggie approached, it looked up, scraggly grey fur matted and stained with blood. It licked its jaws and fixed her with a deadly look – any closer, and she would be its next meal. Maggie didn’t need to be told twice.

Slowly, slowly, Maggie set down the bow and quicker, resting them against the nearest tree, and watched silently as the wolf ate its fill of the harts innards. The smell of blood and death was inescapable, even from a distance. Maggie had become accustomed to the smell on countless hunts with her brother, but it still threw her a little as she adjusted to it.

She didn’t know why she stayed and watched. The wolf was a weak, starving thing, with mangy fur and a scarred up body, especially around its face and ears. An older wolf, then, but without a pack of its own. Maggie almost ached for this creature, left alone and weakened with age and hunger, with no pack to go home to. It was stupid. Ridiculous. She needed to leave and get back to the clan before they began to search. But she couldn’t bring herself to leave this wolfs side. It was lonely. It was hungry. And in truth, she could probably salvage meat from the hart and take the pelt and horns to sell. It wouldn’t hurt much to wait, she thought.

Maggie sat down slowly against the tree, by Piotr’s bow and quiver. The wolf looked at her, but seemed to disregard her as a threat and returned to its feasting. It was a long time before it stopped and cleaned itself up, licking its jaws and pacing away from the hart. Dark was almost upon them. Maggie was still staring, but had long since stopped thinking about anything in particular. It wasn’t until she saw the wolf approach her that she perked up once again. Her hand automatically went to her belt, where she always kept a knife at the ready.

But there was no need for it. The wolf simply stopped a foot or so away from her and sat on its haunches, continuing to lick the blood from its mouth. There was a sad sort of intelligence behind its eyes, like it had seen enough of people to be wary of them. Despite that, though, it drew closer until Maggie could easily reach out and touch its broad head, ruffle its greying fur. Up close, Maggie saw its eyes were a startling blue, but still sad. Lonely.

Maggie held out her hand and let the wolf sniff her hand. Its wet leathery nose brushed her fingers, joined soon by its tongue. She slid her hand up its nose and between its ears, scratching behind one of them until the wolf closed its eyes and leaned into the touch.

“You’re a lonely old dog, aren’t you?” Maggie whispered. The wolf continued to press against her hand, seeking the touch like it was starving for affection. “I wonder where your pack is.”

The wolf didn’t answer. Maggie pulled her hand away and it set its great head against her thigh, looking up at her with what she could only describe as puppy eyes. She smiled.

“Guess it’s just us, then. As long as you stay away from the halla, we’ll be fine,” she said.

The wolf closed its eyes and shifted to get more comfortable while Maggie stroked along its back. She combed through the matted fur as best as she could and felt its scars, all of them old and deep. Bear claws and other wolves, most likely. Perhaps even a spirited halla protecting the herd and the clan. It wouldn’t surprise Maggie. She had seen her fair share of young halla spear unsuspecting wolves with their horns.

But she couldn’t help feeling sorry for this wolf. It was alone and hungry, perhaps close to death, if the impression of its ribs and pelvis were anything to go by. A kind hand and a good meal went a long way where animals were concerned. Even if Maggie lost the hart to maggots and festering bacteria, it was better than having to kill such a weak old creature. Maggie never liked doing that. Even with the old or the sick halla, Maggie hated being the one to put them out of their misery. She even hated watching it.

The wolf was the same. Maybe it would suffer soon and die slowly and painfully, but Maggie didn’t have it in her to put it out of its misery when it clearly only wanted just an inch of kindness and comfort. Wolves really were just large dogs, she thought. She smiled to herself and scratched the wolf behind its ears again. She could have sworn it smiled at her, in that way wolves and dogs smiled when they were happy. Maggie would have to return to her clan soon enough, but it was nice knowing that this creature trusted her.

Night fell, and the wolf slept. Its soft ears twitched as if it dreamed, but its restlessness calmed as Maggie stroked along its back. She worked through the matted fur until its coat was smooth, shining deep brown in the moonlight. Its snores lulled Maggie, but she remained awake to keep an eye on the beast. Wolves could turn with no warning and Maggie didn’t like the idea of waking up with teeth at her throat.

It was late, _late_ , into the night when Maggie managed to slide the wolfs head from her lap and stand up. Her leg had gone numb and she shook it out, balancing against the tree. The wolfs ears twitched at every noise she made, and just as she slid the quiver back onto her shoulder, it lifted its great head. Maggie sighed.

“Sorry. I have to go home,” she said softly. She knelt down and scratched the wolf below the jaw. It licked her hands and rested its head on its paws, looking up at her. Even now, with its fur brushed through and a few hours of sleep to it, it looked healthier. Maggie looked at the hart. It would feed this wolf for a while, she realised. They had food at the camp. They didn’t need it. And there was no point in scaring the Keeper or her family any more than necessary. The longer she was gone, the more worried they would be.

“Stay out of trouble,” Maggie said. She bent down and kissed the top of the wolfs head, then turned and left, heading home.


	2. Chapter 2

Haven. Maggie looked up at it from the bottom of the mountain pass. Snow fell heavily around her, catching in her hair and eyelashes, covering her shoulders in a fine dust. She leaned against her staff and shivered, the cold almost too much. She hadn’t expected Fereldan to be this cold, but then again, this _was_ the mountains. The Temple of Sacred Ashes would be even colder.

“Come on, we have to get up there,” Davhalla said behind her. There was only a small group of them traveling to Haven. Davhalla, Maggie’s cousin, and two others. Limurala and Eiralana, twin girls, were far ahead, scouting the area.

“Think we’ll get in?” Maggie asked. She looked around her. Mages and Templars were everywhere, pointedly ignoring each other on the way up to the temple. The tension was palpable. Maggie frowned, but kept walking, the snow freezing her toes. Even with boots on, she could barely feel them as she wiggled them against the leather.

“If we hang about, then we won’t,” Davhalla said. He clapped her on the back. “Chin up, Magdalena. We’re here for a reason. Just don’t piss off any templars, alright?”

Maggie rolled her eyes, but smiled and followed Davhalla up the mountain.

It was a long, painful trek. They reached the temple just as the night was settling in and were ushered inside, no one taking a second look at their vallaslin. There were Dalish elves in the Circles, and some city elves took to tattooing their faces to emulate their nomadic relatives. Maggie almost wanted to tell them to join the clan whenever she came across elves in towns and villages, but most declined. They had families, friends, in their alienages, and no matter how bad things became, they had to stand by their loved ones.

It was admirable. Maggie saw elven servants dashing around, handing people hot cups of cider and wine to warm them up. She took one from a young elven girl and thanked her in Elvhen, but all she got in return was a slightly confused look and a stammered ‘you’re welcome’ in a choppy city version of their language.

“Don’t do that,” Eiralana said. She sipped her cider, warming her hands around the cup.

“Why?” Maggie asked. She drank her wine, finding it pleasantly spiced and warm. The warmth from the cup thawed her reddened fingers and brought feeling back into them.

“They’re not Dalish. They’re not the same as us,” Eiralana said. She eyed the other elves around them. There were few other Dalish, and they avoided Maggie and her little entourage.

“They’re elves. I just thanked her. You worry too much, Lana,” Maggie said. She walked away and looked around the temple, taking the brief respite to look at the paintings and sculptures that surrounded them. If the shem stories were true, Andraste had her ashes housed here, and they had been used to bring some Fereldan noble from the brink of death a decade ago. The Hero of Fereldan had traveled here, an elven mage, born to a Dalish clan and yet somehow taken to the Circle as a child. Maggie didn’t know the details, but she knew that Warden Commander Surana had attempted to free the Circle from Chantry control, and gave the Dalish land of their own.

Maggie wondered if he was Andrastian. Here, in the Temple of Sacred Ashes, she was surrounded by Andrastian imagery. Andraste being burned, her victory over Tevinter, the freeing of the slaves with Shartan at her side. There were twin statues flanking the doors to the inner chambers, depicting a monster Maggie had no name for. Candles were lit everywhere, the floor swept and cleared of rubble that must have been there upon its re-discovery by the Hero, tapestries brushed and revitalized with bright thread and paint. Even as one of the Elvhenan, Maggie saw the beauty in this place, and under her skin she could feel the power it held.

Somebody bumped into Maggie and she apologized. They just ignored her. She watched as the tall woman who had bumped into her walked away, a sword at her hip and a shield at her back, flanked by a redheaded woman and a tall blond man. They left the temple and closed the doors behind them, shutting out the cold at last.

Maggie found her group and they set up their tiny little sleeping area in a corner, squeezing their bedrolls together as close as possible. Maggie slept on the outside, facing away from the other three and watching as everybody else settled down for the night, sharing provisions from their long trek into the Frostback Mountains. Mages huddled together around strange green magefire and templars discarded their armour with pained grunts, helping each other with ties and clasps. It was a miracle there hadn’t been any fights yet, but it was only a matter of time. The Conclave would take a long time. Weeks, maybe, if they were unlucky. The Divine had called for this meeting to finally settle things once and for all, but Maggie doubted it would be so easy.

People were stubborn. They were so set in their ways that the idea of mages and templars sharing the same cramped sleeping spaces was laughable, even if Maggie was seeing it with her own eyes. She saw a handful of mages and templars interacting peacefully, one couple even sharing a bedroll and talking softly, looking at each other with clear affection in their eyes. Maggie had to smile when she saw them. Not everybody was stubborn, then. Perhaps they had been protecting each other since the outbreak of the war. Perhaps they had been together long before that.

Davhalla kicked Maggie in the back of the leg.

“Go to sleep and stop staring. It’s weird,” he whispered. Maggie kicked him back.

“Just observing,” she said, but she only watched the people around them a few more minutes before closing her eyes and sleeping.

Maggie dreamed of her clan. The majority of them were still in the Free Marches, set up somewhere on the Wounded Coast. They would travel north soon, once the others returned from Fereldan, but Maggie knew that would take a while. She dreamed of Piotr, a hahren in the making. Her parents, both respected and listened to in the clan, even by the Keeper. They parented everybody who needed it and gave advice even when it wasn’t wanted. Maggie watched from the middle of the clan, invisible, as they got on with their lives.

A wolf. The scene changed and Maggie saw a wolf – the wolf from the forest, the one who had slept with its head in her lap. But now, it was much bigger. Twice the size of a horse, its eyes glowing green and its breath warm against her face. _Fen’Harel_ , Maggie thought, but Fen’Harel wasn’t this gentle. This wolf simple curled up at her feet and looked at her expectantly, eyes dimming and ears relaxing. She touched its fur, but it dissolved into nothing, fading like wraith.

The scene changed again. Maggie was running, flames licking her heels, screams following her as she ran from the pyre. The woman burned, screeching in agony, the crowd cheering for this upstarts death. Maggie hadn’t seen her face, but she could tell this woman was suffering the worst death. There was a metallic _shing_ and a earth shattering silence as it pierced the woman's chest, ending her pain so swiftly. The flames crackled. Her body burned.

Maggie woke.

The nightmare followed Maggie through the day. Her stomach roiled and she barely ate, only nibbling on the oatcakes Limurlara handed out to the four of them. She chalked it up to the images surrounding them of Andraste’s death, and her merciful end at the hands of Archon Hessarian. Even the Dalish knew this story, though Maggie wished that she didn’t. Each time she saw a tapestry lit with fire, her heart skipped and she turned away.

The procession was slow. Maggie’s feet hurt. She wanted to sit down and get this over and done with, and going by the number of complaints she overheard, she wasn’t the only one. Antivans and Fereldans and Orlesians, and the odd Tevinter, they were all tired and weary. They all wanted an end to this war. It was tantalisingly close as they were ushered into the inner chamber by harried Chantry sisters. One of them eyed Maggie and the others suspiciously but allowed them to pass nonetheless. They found seats halfway back from a cleared out space, no doubt meant for the Divine.

“Is that a Grey Warden?” Davhalla whispered as he sat down. He nodded in the direction of a soldier, and Maggie’s curiosity was piqued at the sight of telltale blue and grey robes, and griffon emblazoned armour. “What are they doing here?”

“Everyone wants an end to the war, idiot,” Eiralana said, cuffing him around the head. Davhalla scowled at her.

“Wardens aren’t meant to be politically involved,” Davhalla said. “It’s suspicious.”

“Both of you shut up,” Maggie said. She bit her thumbnail, anxiety coiling in her gut like a poisonous snake. The sheer amount of people around them pressed against her like a great weight. There were too many people, Maggie wanted to bolt and run all the way back to the Free Marches, where she would be safer.

It was a long time before a hush fell over the crowd and everything went silent. It was profound enough that to seemed to echo against the high stone ceiling and walls. Maggie shuddered. No amount of people should be cramped into a holy space like this.

Maggie felt the collective breath leave the room before she saw Divine Justinia appear. She drew every eye, no matter the faith, commanding the room with her presence as if she was channeling the power of Andraste herself, taking that influence and using it for the good of the people looking to her for guidance. It reminded Maggie of the Arlathvhen, when the clans gathered and shared their knowledge. The hushed silence as they waited for the Keepers to speak and the air of holiness and power that surrounded them was similar. Not the same, but very similar.

“It has been a long and trying journey for us all,” Divine Justinia said. “But we stand here, ready for change and ready for peace, a peace that will benefit all the displaced and hurt. All of us here have the same goal – to end this war and bring about change that has been coming for more than an Age. We cannot undo the damage done, but here, in this holiest of places, we can stop it before it sweeps across Thedas and brings us all to a bitter end.

“We must embrace change in order to move forward and progress, to improve the welfare of all under the Chantry, and all outside of it. As children of the Maker, it is our duty to protect each other. No side is innocent in this conflict, and placing blame will get us nowhere if we are to seek a resolution. A _peaceful_ resolution. No blood will be shed here, and we must put aside our personal biases for the sake of the greater good. We must be open to each other, open to change, open to a new beginning for us all. And that new beginning starts here.”

Maggie flinched at the sudden thunderous applause but joined in nonetheless. A short speech, but an effective one, if the cheering was anything to go by. Maggie met Davhalla’s eye and he shrugged as if to say _‘fucking shems’_ , as if the Keepers didn’t make the same damn speeches every time they gathered or spent too much time around each other and a bottle of nettle wine. It seemed people in authority were the same everywhere, if only in the little ways.

The applause died down and Divine Justinia waited patiently for silence to come over them all once again. The talk of change and mutual peace had clearly ruffled some feathers if the displeased faces around them were anything to go by. Some people were so stuck in their ways that change was impossible. But the couple Maggie had seen the night before sat in the row in front of her, hands clasped tight as they both shook and tried to remain calm. There was hope yet.

Hope. Something the Divine talked about as she continued on – hope for change, hope for peace, hope for forgiveness and cooperation and moving towards the future, rather than staying stuck in the past. Everything the Chantry should be in theory but had strayed so far from that they had an army of Templars and several brutal Exalted Marches to its name. Maybe Divine Justinia really wanted to get down to the bare bones of what the Chantry was meant to be and start again, all actions forgiven for the sake of future generations.

Something didn’t quite sit well in Maggie’s gut. She looked around, but all she saw were the uniform faces of exhausted and wounded mages and templars sitting side by side for once. The Grey Warden from earlier was gone. Maggie searched for him, but he was nowhere to be seen. Vanished. Perhaps he bowed out or took a seat somewhere in the back. A lone Warden, here at the Conclave, and he just disappears? Something wasn’t right about that.

She tried to leave it be. She tried to listen as people began to talk about what they wanted from this Conclave, but she struggled. The hairs on her arms stood on end and her focus was all but gone.

Davhalla elbowed her in the side and Maggie yelped in surprise, drawing eyes from around her. They forgot her immediately as a templar began to yell about how _magic was meant to serve man, never rule over him_ , and Chantry sisters had to calm her from her tirade.

“What’s wrong?” Davhalla asked. Maggie leaned close.

“That Warden from earlier is gone. I can’t see him. Something feels weird,” she whispered. The twins glanced at her, but went back to focusing intently on the talk as they always did in situations like this. Davhalla frowned and looked at the Divine. His brows were drawn together in worry, creasing the lines of his vallaslin. “Lethallin?”

“It could just be the old power of the place, Maggie. But…”

“You feel it too, don’t you?” Maggie said. Davhalla went pale and nodded. Their eyes met. A lifetime of being raised almost as siblings meant they agreed on the same thing without having to speak a word of it. “Stay here.”

Maggie didn’t know how she managed to get past the seated crowd or through the doors, but they let her go without much of a second look. She closed the door behind her and stood in the almost empty cavernous entrance to the Temple. Almost empty.

It was mostly the injured and exhausted, sleeping on their bedrolls and taking advantage of the space around them by spreading out and lounging lazily. None of them looked at Maggie. Instead, they were distracted by their own conversations and reading. A few Chantry sisters milled about, but they paid no heed either. Maggie just looked around, squinting as if it would make the problem that much clearer. Or maybe there wasn’t even a problem and Maggie was just paranoid. Ever since she set foot in Fereldan, she had been looking over her shoulder every five minutes. There was tension everywhere here, it had seeped into the water and the earth and even the very stones beneath Maggie’s feet. Perhaps she just needed a few minutes to breathe and calm herself down. She needed to keep a level head here, where she was surrounded half by people who would kill her in an instant, and half by people who were too scared and overwhelmed they could hardly contain their own power.

She sat down on one of the stone steps and put her head between her knees. She counted her breaths to a hundred and back again, playing with her hair to keep herself grounded, absently working through knots with her fingers. She wasn’t meant to be here. She wasn’t meant to be in Fereldan. She should have just stayed with the clan in the Free Marches and let Davhalla handle this, instead of following her duty as the clans First and going in the Keeper’s place. He was a mage. He was better with people, with humans. He should have just gone and Maggie should have stayed at home.

She counted her breaths, up and down, up and down, up and down, until her head stopped spinning and the paranoia dwindled to just a tiny flicker in the back of her mind. She sat up straight and ran a hand through her hair.

The air itself changed.

Maggie was on her feet in an instant. Her staff was back in the room with Davhalla, _why_ did she leave it in there? She could tell when a fight was coming. She could tell when there was magic involved.

It had to be the mages, she thought as she headed towards the door. Mana and energy made the air smell like ozone, the static before a storm, the moment after a lightning strike. Some instances were more literal than others. She thought of Davhalla, the twins, all the people in the huge room, cramped together and hanging on every damn word the Divine said.

The Divine.

Oh _gods_.

Maggie didn’t think before barging back into the room, and she didn’t think before running into the darkness, screaming in pain, her whole world swallowed up by black and green and a crushing force she barely registered before blacking out entirely.

 


End file.
